"Don't worry. Pot doesn't cause cancer. It's cigarettes that cause cancer, and you know I quit seven years ago." Don took a long drag off the joint, held it in. He shook his head at what he heard on the phone and blew out smoke.
"I haven't heard anyone getting cancer from pot. Maybe after you quit cigarettes, but it's still cigarettes. Quit trying to get me paranoid. I already am! Ha, ha! Okay, talk to ya later, Mom."
After he hung up Don searched around the coffee table and found the DVD from the library. It was 1984 with Richard Burton. Don plugged it in, sat back, and watched it with a Budweiser. He roached the joint. Soon the movie engrossed him. The totalitarian government in the movie made him uneasy. No drugs in that regime.
He became aware of a feeling of discomfort. He belched. That didn't help. It wasn't heartburn either. Nothing burny. It was lower, in his belly. He could feel something there, something heavy. He rubbed it and thought it was, what? A mass? A cold feeling swept through Don. It wasn't that. Couldn't be. He'd be in more pain. Still, something was not right.
He watched the movie but his attention wandered.
That night in bed he woke up feeling nauseated. There was something upsetting his stomach. He leaned over and slid the trash container closer to his bed and hung his head over it. Only drool came out. He laid back and rubbed his belly. He could feel pressure behind his belly button. Something pushing. Don lit a joint and as he smoked, the queasiness faded away. Like after chemotherapy. His sleep of the remainder of the night was broken and filled with unsettled dreams.
***
Don couldn't concentrate at his computer. He kept making mistakes. The latest book review wouldn't flow through his fingers and onto the screen. Usually he'd type it without referring to notes and go on to the next one. Reading online proved likewise. His mind was elsewhere. He rubbed his belly. The hell with this, he thought, turning off the computer. Perhaps if he watched TV it would take his mind off things.
But the TV was so much noise. He sat on the couch and sweated. Something had changed. He lifted his T-shirt and looked. Now his stomach bulged right behind his belly button. Whatever it was it pushed. And the pain! His skin stretched. That hurt! His belly button separated and a thing burst out. His eyes grew wide and he choked back a sob for what he saw was smooth and mottled and shaped like a sausage. It protruded some six inches. In his mind was the word--tumor.
Don hesitantly touched it. It was firm and the pain had subsided. Now he could view it with interest. He rubbed his index finger around it and over it, and poked it. This was something he hadn't heard of. Don had to hold back from snapping it with his finger. He did tap it. It was softer than wood and not at all hollow. He put his T-shirt down and tucked it in, carefully.
More pot. Stronger stuff. Then he'd see things in a different light and it wouldn't be so bad. He pulled on a coat.
Outside Don bent against the cold November wind. He shivered and trotted across the street to where his friend Dickie lived on the third floor of a three-decker. He entered and climbed the stairs. The stairway and every floor reeked of piss, fried cooking odors, and vomit. The third floor lay in gloom.
He knocked on an apartment's door. It opened and a woman's bloated face peered out at him.
"What dya want?"
"Is Dickie here?"
She stepped aside and let him enter, then glanced both ways in the hallway before slamming the door. The lady wore a polka dot dress that clung to a surprisingly trim figure. Her hair was gray and ratty and her face had the lined and pitted look of one battered by life. She led him to the living room where he could see the fire escape outside a curtained window.
A young bearded man came out of the bathroom and nodded at Don.
"Hey, Don. What'll ya have? Coffee?"
"Hi, Dickie. No thanks." He put two fingers to his lips and raised an eyebrow.
"Come into my room."
Inside they flopped on a bed. The room was a mess. A Russell Crowe poster was tacked on a wall along with one of the movie, 300. Over the bed hung a rubber hand clenched in a fist. The bedside stand was almost hidden beneath dirty clothes. The ticking of an alarm clock could be heard.
"What'll ya have?"
"Got any Hawaiian?"
Dickie swept the clothes off the stand and reached in a drawer. He withdrew a wooden box and opened it. "How much?"
"An eighth?"
Dickie counted. "I got some quarter ounces. Here's an eighth."
"That will do."
"Okay. Here. Is everything all right?"
"Here's the money." Don handed over some bills. He put the plastic bag in his inside coat pocket, and quickly took his hand out.
"You look sorta pale. You're not getting out much?"
"No, not much." Don hesitated. "Dickie, you were sick last summer, right?"
"Oh, was I ever. Diverticulitis. A real bad case. Got a tumor too."
"What was that like, the tumor." Don looked down, swallowed.
"It was like a cigar, under the skin along the side of my belly. An infection."
"It wasn't--"
"Cancer? Naw, just an infection. Had it taken out, and a foot of intestine. Man, I wore a bag for four months."
Don's eyes were large. He looked at Dickie's stomach.
"They re-attached it, though. After four months."
"Did it hurt?"
"Hell yes, at the beginning. Antibiotics took care of that. And a shot of painkillers every four hours in the arse." He laughed.
Don weakly smiled.
***
Don woke up in a cold sweat. He'd dreamt of eels. They were under the covers, at the foot of his bed, eels. Cool and smooth. He had held one in his hand and his hand was near his mouth. He had burped and woke and smelled baloney. His chest was covered in sweat. And his belly. And his member.
It now protruded nearly a foot. About doubled in length. Like a foot long hot dog. He coughed and it jiggled. A joint right now wouldn't help. It didn't before. He just got more stoned and worried. But what if...
...he cut it off? Would it bleed? What would a doctor do? How much would it cost? Money's tight right now. He regretted buying such expensive pot. In the morning he'd see. He turned over and slept on his side.
Upon awakening Don tugged on a housecoat and left it untied. As he went to the kitchen he watched the thing bounce, and walked right into the doorjamb. The thing was pushed in a couple inches and the pain was intense as if something would rupture out the other end. It didn't, though. It popped out and resumed its shape.
He got the wooden cutting board and a steak knife. The housecoat was in his way so he dropped it to the floor and stood naked. Goosebumps raised on his skin. He took the thing in his fingers and stretched it out onto the board. How about tape? Tape it near the belly end and cut it in the middle and it would be even. He took masking tape from the junk drawer and taped it near his belly. But the tape was wide. It didn't make any difference--just cut closer to his belly.
Again he stretched it out and raised the knife and placed it on the tape. He began to saw but the thing flattened. No resistance. It slid to one side, then the other. Scissors? He got a pair out and took the tape off and stretched the thing out in the air and placed the scissors against the skin and pressed. It hurt bad. Like cutting a zit. The thing had inner feelings. He put the housecoat back on and pressed the thing up against his belly and tied it there with the cloth belt.
This time Don did get an idea from pot. The Internet. He surfed to his homepage and Googled belly button problems. A number of sites showed up. One may have been tongue-in-cheek. A tick. The fella woke up with one. He lived in the country. A vacuum cleaner worked. Sucked it right out. Don couldn't do that.
Discharge. No. Scratched in one's sleep and infected? He checked and didn't have any scratches. Yeast infection--no. Belly button 18 caret gold ring infection--no. Infection from drinking beer caused by a beer belly? The guy's wife was only speculating. Should he have plastic surgery? But the cost! A third nipple? No. Lipoma? Fatty tissue? Hernia? From masturbation? He wasn't sure.
The answers raised more questions. The emergency room would have to look at him, even if he couldn't pay. 'Yes, doctor. I have a dick growing out of my navel. No, it's not circumcised.'
He would await developments, and see.
***
Don switched channels. The weather channel said snow tonight. A bummer. He had meant to get out and perhaps take a walk. He hadn't been out in days. Not since buying the Hawaiian pot. And he was getting low. Well, he thought, we all make sacrifices now and then. Maybe Dickie would deliver.
But where's that pizza guy? He moved the thing out of the way so he could concentrate on the weekend forecast. The thing kept getting in his line of vision. Last night he shut it in the closet door. Talk about pain. It still has the indent. If it had a V shaped end, and put a comb in it, he could comb his hair. He already itched his chin with it. Draped his towel over it as he shaved. Its head was too soft to use on a touch-tone phone. Or type at the keyboard.
Might it be the pot?
Pizza! About time. He opened the door and got the box and paid the guy. It was a long reach. He had to hold his shirt closed or the boy would not have known which limb to receive the payment from. Don didn't leave a tip.
In fact, Don was low on money. He no longer typed at the keyboard. The words would not come. No book reviews. No tech solutions. No data entry. His column jobs had dried up and he no longer answered emails.
When he wasn't smoking he ate pizza, or watched TV sitting in the dark with the windows covered. Old Jimmy Stewart movies. Beverly Hillbillies. Gilligan's Island with the skipper too. Adventures in Paradise. Never mind belly buttons. Turn the channel and choose--door number one, door number two, or door number three. He chose three and got the Ford SUV with the mobile home and a three-speed hair dryer. Don ate the small one top pizza and there was a moment when he didn't know which side to take a bite or hold the slice. The thing was in the way. He swallowed and became aware that the thing moved on its own. At its base it swelled. A bulge had developed and slowly moved upwards. He put the slice he was eating down and watched the bulge move as Sgt. Joe Friday intoned, "Just the facts, Ma'am, we're not reporters."
It felt as if something had detached itself from his belly and rolled upwards, rippling the skin. His eyes were big as saucers and he held his breath. The TV quieted because it also seemed to watch this new phenomenon. Whatever it was stopped at the tip. And like a foreskin parting, there appeared an eye.
The hair on Don's head stood straight up. The pupil in the eye was black with just a hint of white showing and it seemed to glow. The eye sought and held Don's horrified stare. It squinted, and winked.
Then it began to whisper.
***
"Perhaps he took the whole bottle of Wellbutrin?"
"No. See the expiration date? It's more than a year old. And besides, ninety pills at 150 milligrams per, he'd puke it up if he did." Detective Perkins shook his head.
"Most likely he simply slid under and drowned. The bottle tells us it's a good chance he's a depressive personality, which means the Medical Examiner will certainly do an autopsy. I doubt this is accidental. You're right thinking he offed himself."
A plainclothes photographer took pictures of the body. The head, the torso, the legs and feet. He yawned.
"You've seen this type?" Patrolman Ruiz backed up and let the photographer out of the cramped bathroom.
"Yep. You notice how neat this place is, how everything lines up, how all the stuff is carefully placed, like in a museum? Signs of obsessive behavior. He might have magnified something that bothered him, plus the pot we found, until….
They both glanced at the body in the tub.
"Officer?"
The detective looked at a man standing in the middle of the living room.
"Can I go now? I gotta walk my dog."
"That's the landlord--Dennis Gerland. I have it all down."
"It's past her time, Officer. If I don't walk her, she'll crap on the floor."
"Yeah, go ahead." The man left in a hurry. Detective Perkins turned and nodded at the two attendants from the County Medical Examiner's office. "Thanks, Fellas." He stood aside and let them enter.
The attendants lifted then carried the naked body out of the tiny bathroom and after wrapping it in a white sheet, strapped it on a gurney.
"He looks at peace," commented one attendant.
"Probably to get the hell outa this rat hole. It's a wonder he ain't hunched. You see the pot scattered around in there?"
"Probably died contemplating his navel."
They both laughed.
